


three lives balanced like steak knives

by seinmit



Category: Captain America (Movies), Knives Out (2019)
Genre: (Written before it aired with no knowledge of anything but the teasers), Captain America Sam Wilson, Face-Fucking, M/M, Meaningless Sex, Possibly Unrequited Sam/Bucky, Post-Endgame, Post-Falcon and the Winter Soldier, Pre-Knives Out (2019), Rough Sex, Smoking, Smut and Angst, Unrequited Love, alcohol consumption, bad decision sex, unrequited Steve/Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22609873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seinmit/pseuds/seinmit
Summary: Bucky is over-run by Captains America; Ransom Drysdale isn't any kinda hero.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52
Collections: X-Ship - The Crossover Relationship Exchange 2019





	three lives balanced like steak knives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionessvalenti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionessvalenti/gifts).



> Title from "Bad Religion" by Frank Ocean.

"So, what next?" Sam asked. 

"You're Captain America," Bucky said. "In case you hadn't noticed." 

Sam rolled his eyes, but he couldn't conceal the soft twitch of his smile. He'd fought hard for that shield, and it looked good on his arm. Bucky'd say that it looked like he was born to it, but nobody was born to be Captain America. Steve had been created, and Sam had fought for it, but it wasn't easy for anybody. Bucky didn't even have to say no to Steve—they'd both known he didn't want it and never would. 

"Yeah, I guessed that. Nobody else gets to wear a big bright primary-colored shield to a black-tie affair," Sam said. 

"You look ridiculous, by the way," Bucky said. Sam was all done up in a dark navy tux, but he wore a red, white, and blue pocket-square and the shield slung over his back. He was sporting a patent leather shield harness—Steve could not have pulled it off. 

"Nah, you're lying," Sam said, unconcerned. "I look phenomenal." 

Bucky smiled vaguely and took a long gulp of his drink. It didn't do anything, of course. Getting drunk would take a hell of a lot more than that. Thank god it was still possible with determination. 

Sam puffed his chest up when Bucky ignored him and cocked his hip, striking a pose that could have come right off the catwalk. Bucky's eyes went promptly elsewhere. He knew better than to linger—even though Sam was right. He looked great. 

"Glad you think so, Wilson. Self-delusion is as important a skill for Captain America as shield-throwing." Now, _that_ came out more bitter than he intended. They both winced, delicately, but Sam didn't comment—in the months they'd spent shoring up Sam's status as Steve's replacement, they'd eventually reached a shared understanding that sometimes a guy had to be overwhelmingly caustic and that a buddy wouldn't call him on it. 

" _Anyway_ ," Sam said. "What's next for you, pork-chop?" 

"I'm all-American beef." 

"So that means no Wakanda? T'Challa'd be happy to have you back." 

Bucky drained his drink and stepped out of the sheltering plant they'd stationed themselves behind long enough to snag a glass of champagne in each hand. Sam reached for one, but Bucky evaded him. 

Wakanda had been where Bucky learned to imagine a future. There had been a lot of happy daydreams, in that little house and the company of goats. He'd shared moments with Steve that had made him think maybe, finally—but it had been nothing but idiocy, top to bottom. Now it was time to imagine a different future, and he didn't know if he could go back to a place so redolent with foolish hopes. 

"Stop mothering me," Bucky said. 

"I know you got brain damage," Sam said slowly. "But it's called 'friendship.'" 

Bucky needed to find a different type of friend, it seemed. The way Sam was looking at him, the dark intensity in his eyes—it was a lot. He needed to not have this conversation. He knocked back both champagne flutes and set them in the planter with a forest of their friends. 

Sam didn't deserve that whiskey he'd been nursing, and he wasn't expecting to have to defend it: Bucky easily stole it, drank it. He had to get immense volume to get a buzz going. 

"You have people to schmooze," Bucky said, heading off any protest before Sam could get it past his sputtering. "Captain America can't be drunk in public, 's undignified." 

"Well, what about his sidekick, Sergeant Bucky Barnes?" Sam said. It was as close to asking as he'd gotten yet. For weeks now, he'd been dancing around the idea that Bucky could settle in as Sam's sidekick, cover Sam's six like he'd done for Steve in the War. Sam was hopeful, and something was compelling about the idea. 

They made a good team. Sometimes Bucky had barreled in as the chemically-enhanced bruiser he was, with Sam providing air support. Other times, they'd both hang back, and Bucky'd pick them off with his rifle as Sam swooped in for precision strikes. More than the tactics on the field, though, they got along. There'd not been all that much fighting, all told, dealing with everything that had needed doing—much more of it had been spent in shitty motel rooms or long car trips. It could have been a disaster, but Bucky had found himself loving it—learning about Sam's taste in music, tricking him into trying weird shit at various food stalls, bickering over who got to drive. 

Sam had a way of avoiding hard conversations with charm and bullshit—or, well. Not avoiding them exactly, but Bucky would find himself talking about things he'd never thought he'd tell anyone, and it was just never a big deal, never an event. Hard conversations weren't _hard_ with Sam. Sam would listen and then offer some corresponding intimacy about himself. It was nice. It was the diametric opposite of Steve's way of relating to a friend, but—well. Bucky couldn't do this again. He just could not. 

"Sam," he said finally. The pause had been too long, and Sam's face had already gone soft with regret. "I don't think it's for me." 

Bucky knew that Sam wouldn't push him, not on this. He felt a little uneasy, like he was lying by implication—sure, he didn't want to fight, but right now he didn't have any better ideas. And it wasn't about the fight. Killing people was the easy part of being Captain America's right-hand man. Sam reached out and squeezed his shoulder, the left one. His hand wasn't as big as Steve's had been, but they both unfailingly reached for his left, like they had something to prove. He felt the press of Sam's palm on the ridge where metal met flesh, the hard knob of scar tissue rubbing against the delicate fabric of his tux. 

"You'll figure it out," Sam said. "Worst comes to worst, there's always goats."

"Bite your tongue," Bucky said. "Shit can get way worse than goats."

Sam released his shoulder and grinned at him. "Man, they _stink_. Did torture stink?" 

Yes, and Sam knew it. Like piss, more than anything, and burning flesh. But the stupidity of the comment was enough to make Bucky roll his eyes, some tension draining out of his spine. 

"Absolutely," Bucky said with a straight face. "You know that Glade tropical plug-in that made you sneeze non-stop? Getting tortured weirdly smelled just like that. Like plumeria."

"I'm delighted to say I don't know which part of that perfumed hell-scape was the plumeria," Sam said. Now it was on him to step out of their hiding spot, having spotted a passing waiter. 

It was more dangerous for him, though—big honking target on his back and all—and he got caught up in a conversation with someone who looked important almost immediately. The man had been surprised when Captain America stepped in front of him, but a predatory smile instantly appeared on his face, reaching out to clasp the hand that Sam had outstretched for champagne. 

Sam froze, startled, but he was good at this—he smiled. He flicked Bucky a look, but Bucky mouthed _adios_ and got the hell out of dodge. 

A good-looking kid was working the bar. He was blond and slender, maybe 23, and he had this cute little earring in his ear. Bucky liked the look, and he liked the way the kid's eyes widened at him—Bucky could tell, instantly, with something deep in his marrow, that the thing that had him staring wasn't anything other than the breadth of Bucky's shoulders. 

Bucky smiled, slow and easy, and leaned against the bar, getting close enough that everyone was clear just how much taller he was then the kid. 

"What can I get you?" he asked. His voice was probably more breathless than it would be for most patrons, and Bucky liked that quite a bit. 

"Why don't you start me out with an extremely strong whiskey soda, how about that?" Bucky said. He let his voice go low, enough that the kid had to lean in to hear him through the hubbub of party-goers around the open-bar. Bucky liked the idea of making his body sway. 

There wasn't any type of seat. This wasn't that type of bar, and the kid wasn't that type of bartender. He was wearing the smart black uniform the rest of the caterers were. People were in and out, getting their drinks and heading back to the swirling party. Celebrating Captain America, Old and New, the banner said. The brass always found a way to make hard-fought victories sanctioned. They liked to bet on the winner, and they were powerful enough that they could do that even after the race was done. 

A touch on his arm startled him out of his thoughts, his back going rigid. 

"Sorry," the kid said. "Your drink, sir." 

He had lovely big blue eyes, didn't he. It was a pretty picture, with his blond hair. Bucky let their fingers brush reaching for his glass. He could feel it right through the thin leather glove he was wearing. He could see a trace of pink in the kid's cheeks. 

"I think it's too early in the night for titles," Bucky said, brazen—and yeah, the pink went a little deeper, but the kid laughed. 

"Early for you, maybe," he said. "This is my second shift."

He looked at Bucky, through his long eyelashes, and it was compelling as all hell. The kid smiled like he knew it. 

There was a twist of something wrong in that smile, and it brought Bucky up short. It was coquettish, enticing. 

He realized with sudden, queasy certainty the reason why it seemed wrong: Steve wouldn't flirt like this. Even when he was a little guy, he flirted right in your face. He wouldn't play little games of looking away, especially not with Bucky. 

The guy didn't even look like Steve, not in the particulars. He was a few inches taller than he used to be and slender in the lean way that spoke to yoga and effort as opposed to sickness. His blond was the wrong shade. He wasn't Steve, not at all, and Bucky felt disgusted with his own disappointment. 

He knocked back the whiskey and summoned one more smile when he asked. 

"If this is an open bar, how about I just take the bottle?" 

He barely waited for surprised permission before snagging it and fleeing the room. 

Bucky was fucking haunted, apparently, and maybe it is that which meant that he wasn't watching himself as he entered the fire stairs, aiming to make his way down the sixty-odd floors on foot. He was off his game enough that he just caught a flash of surprised blue eyes, more ghosts to run from, before he knocked a stranger flat. He managed to keep ahold of the whiskey. 

The guy went sprawling, bouncing right off Bucky's body like it was stone. He was wearing a tux, and it made him look trim and muscular, but clearly, those muscles were more for show than Bucky's own. Definitely more than Steve's were, because the man—he looked like Steve. His coloring was subtly different, but the lines of his jaw, the crooked jut of his nose, the way his eyes were set in his face—Steve had a twin and Bucky had put him on his ass without even intending to—it was like the universe had given him an immediate reminder: that bartender didn't look like Steve, _this_ was what Steve looked like. The slender man in Bucky's memory might as well have never existed.

"What the fuck?" the guy said, sputtering. He stared up at Bucky, a scowl twisting his shockingly familiar face. He smelled like smoke.

Bucky looked down at him like he'd been struck dumb. He—well. He'd taken Steve down, more or less, but it had taken Herculean effort and Steve giving up to do it. If he had run into Steve distractedly, he would have bounced right off. 

This guy might look like Steve, but Bucky had the vivid certainty he could snap him like a twig. That thought hit his body hot and cold, like a flush underneath his skin. Yeah, no, he wasn't going to indulge that feeling for a second. He stepped over the guy, still trying to get himself up off the floor, and ignored his outraged squawk. He started going down the stairs. 

He heard him follow after, though, and he hated the guilty gratefulness of his pounding heart. 

"Hey! Hey, wait!" The guy reached him and grabbed his right shoulder. He made as if to stop Bucky, to move him to turn around—of course, Bucky could shake it off like a horse shivering away a fly. He stopped but didn't turn around. He forced the stranger to move around his body after a futile, quick tug. He would bet, given the size of the man, that he was used to being the strong one. He wasn't on Bucky's scale. 

The guy had a huffy sort of curiosity on his face as he looked at Bucky. He leaned in, rude, and peered at Bucky's face. Anyone else, Bucky would have been out of there—but, well. The guy looked fascinated, and that was a look Bucky liked to see on Steve. 

"You're the psycho killer, huh? Qu'est-ce que c'est."

"What?" Bucky said, baffled by the sudden burst of French. 

The guy ignored him. 

"Mad dog in the flesh right here," he said. He reached out and poked Bucky's chest, hard. Bucky flinched, but not as much as he would if he had someone else's face. He made a great big show of looking Bucky over, but Bucky could tell that he was keeping an eye on Bucky's face. He wondered what type of reaction the stranger was looking for. 

"You don't look as dangerous without the flowing locks," he said. "I would really have urged against the haircut, just as a branding move—and this suit doesn't fit you nearly as well as that bondage gear used to. I respect the commitment to booze that has you stealing liquor, though. Costumed vigilante not paying well?"

He even sounded like Steve--not like Steve sounded any time recently, but way back before the chip on his shoulder had gotten worn down by the weight of the world. Back in the day, he and Bucky would sit in the darkness of their local bar, and he'd talk about half of the other guys in the neighborhood, the ones who were real pieces of shit. Steve always saw everything about people, and he'd notice things, he'd remember things, and he'd tell Bucky about how this one could barely read or that one got so drunk last payday he peed himself right at the bar. He'd point out the subtle ridiculousness of their ears or nose with the observant eye of an artist and his own wicked sense of humor. But the thing was, the thing that really tied Bucky to Steve, heart and soul, was that was just how those nights started. 

By the end, drunk off of two beers and hanging on Bucky to make their way home, Steve would be whispering to Bucky, hot wet breaths against Bucky's neck. He'd talk about how sweet Patrick was to his ma or that the reason John got drunk was because his daddy got drunker, or that Rick would hire one working girl in particular, one that could read real well, because he'd rather people think he was getting his dick wet than know how much he struggled to get through his favorite science fiction magazine. 

And these guys, to a man, were bonafide assholes, each of whom had done his level best to knock Steve's teeth in or, if not, had been cruel to him and his in other ways. Bucky would happily see the whole lot of them fry, but Steve always found the glimmer of beauty even in their black hearts. 

"Huh, I guess all that stuff about you being a zombie was on the money," that voice said, cutting through the ache of memory. There was a hand, snapping fingers right in Bucky's face. 

"I'm sorry," Bucky said, clearing his throat. "You just—"

"Look like a dead buddy of yours?" he said. "I get that a lot. It's a shame I never met the real Cap—I wanted to shake his hand and thank him for all the pussy he's helped me score over the years." 

Bucky snorted a surprised laugh before muffling it with his best stern glare. He couldn't tolerate the "real Cap" jibe, even though he did have the immediate wish that he could've seen Steve's face. 

"You can meet the real Cap right upstairs," Bucky said. He put heavy knowledge of all the motherfuckers that had died over the past few months to make that very clear. 

The stranger rolled his eyes so elaborately that the movement went right down to his chin. 

"Spare me," he said. "I am much more interested in talking more about how you look like you're having a religious experience looking at me than any sermons."

He made a considering face. "Hmm, that doesn't quite work. I'm going to have to workshop that series of metaphors."

This stranger was like an over-grown yappy dog, speaking any quantity of bullshit with a self-satisfied twist to his mouth and an eager pair of eyes on Bucky's face. He wanted a reaction from Bucky, and he seemed agnostic about the nature of it, switching effortlessly from insults to flirting. 

"I'm sorry for disturbing your illicit cigarette," Bucky said. The man accurately interpreted that as a brush-off. He reached out to grab Bucky's upper arm, sinking his fingers into the fine material of Bucky's suit. It was an attempted power move; it was effortless for Bucky to shrug it off. 

Bucky liked the way that felt. The man looked startled and then intrigued. His eyes flickered to Bucky's other arm, the left arm. So he was well informed, then, even though there was no visible metal. 

The stranger stuck out his right hand to shake. Bucky looked at it but didn't reach. 

"Ransom Drysdale," he said. 

"Ransom?" 

"Keep in mind that people call you Bucky," he said. "Did you know there's literally a T-rex skeleton that people call Bucky? You're a dinosaur. If you are so concerned about black Cap getting the respect he deserves you should have found yourself a handy meteor like your buddy." 

Bucky found himself tilting his head. It was too outrageous to be actually insulting. He opened up the whiskey and took a long drink. It burned down his throat, and he licked his lips to chase the flavor. Ransom reached for it, but Bucky moved it out of reach. 

"Are you trying to get a rise out of me?" he asked. He promptly realized the absurdity of that question and corrected himself. "Why are you trying to irritate me?"

Ransom grinned and reached into his pocket, fishing out a pack of cigarettes. The pack was slim and dark, with gold lettering. He opened it like a book, revealing graceful black cylinders with gold filters. They didn't look like any kind of cigarette that Bucky was used to. 

He fished one out and offered it up. "I'll give you one if you share the liquor."

Bucky just looked at it; he was acquainted enough with modern norms to know that you weren't supposed to smoke in the emergency stairs. 

"C'mon," Ransom said, his tone wheedling. "Live a little."

"Drugs don't work on me," Bucky said. 

Ransom's smile broadened, revealing perfect white teeth. Steve's smile had been crooked before the serum, but they had looked like that after. 

"Well, we can test that out if you wanna, but all these got is nicotine," he said. He stuck the cigarette he was holding in his mouth to twist the pack around and show Bucky what was written there. 

"The world's most elegant cigarette," he read, crisply. "100% natural tobacco. I don't expect you to recognize the brand—I obviously had to hit up wikipedia when my doppelgänger was defrosted, and you were white trash before it was cool, right?" 

Bucky plucked the unlit cigarette from between Ransom's lips, because he could and because he didn't want to look at the soft depressions it made. 

"You're an asshole," Bucky said. His tone was mild and informative. 

"Ah, and you're an observant guy, ain't ya?" he said. Bucky wondered if the folksy note was supposed to be another sort of mockery; it was strangely directed. At this point, Bucky's accent was utterly transparent. He'd sound like a TV announcer if he forced more intonation. 

"Got a light?" Bucky said. 

Ransom fished out a zippo, gleaming silver. Bucky caught a flash of the engraving: HDR. He supposed contemporary men would be more impressed by the thing—he still found himself fascinated by modern plastics and the wanton disposability of the simple BIC. Ransom made to light his cigarette for him, but Bucky snatched it out of his hand and did it himself. This guy wasn't going to seduce him. They very well might fuck—Bucky could feel the possibility gathering at the edges of his vision, like the darkness that comes before fainting, but Bucky was in control here. He wasn't going to let this pissant with Steve's face get the upper hand. He savored the thought. 

The cigarette was good. But still: a cigarette. 

"It's flashy," he said. "But not the best cigarette I've ever had." 

He liked the taste of the smoke, the thick body of it sinking into his lungs. There was an almost floral curl to it. He gulped the whiskey—it tasted good together. 

"It advertises elegance," Ransom said, lighting his cigarette. "But that's not your style, is it?" 

Another lingering look across Bucky's shoulders. Bucky was suddenly tired of this conversation. He took a deep drag of his cigarette, and felt it gather in his gut, felt his blood start to heat with the direction of his thoughts. 

"I feel like I should get you to sign something for me," Ransom was saying. "What's appropriate for a murderous crazy person? Do you have a convenient ax or something? Do you only sign things in blood?" 

Bucky leaned down and put the whiskey on the floor of the landing, out of the way. Then, he shoved Ransom against the wall. Ransom gasped and went stiff, but as soon as it happened, it was over; he was talking again, languid again, smirking at Bucky. 

"I wasn't offering up my blood—"

"Stop talking," Bucky growled. He flicked his cigarette away and kissed him, rough. He went in with teeth and tongue, smothering the constant stream of words with his mouth—he didn't give Ransom the option to keep talking. 

Bucky had kissed Steve exactly once. It had been late at night. Bucky didn't always sleep well, and neither did Steve—Steve had quickly learned Bucky's habit of moonlit walks when rest wouldn't come, and there they were, by the lake. It had smelled sweet and green—the dry season had been chased away by early rains, but the world wasn't yet entirely waterlogged. Bucky had felt possibility in his veins, he had felt like Steve and Bucky were space travelers, drifting through the universe. They'd come a long way to get to this moment, and there was nothing but darkness all around them. Steve had been smiling at him. He had done so much smiling, looking at Bucky with a quiet and incomprehensible joy. Bucky had thought he had felt it resonate with the secret heart of himself, a thing he'd been carrying around since before he knew a name for it. It had felt right to lean in and kiss Steve, gentle. It had felt more right than anything had since Pearl-fucking-Harbor. 

This kiss, now—well, it was nothing like that one. Ransom opened his mouth and let Bucky take control. He surged his body against Bucky's hold, testing his strength. But when Bucky released his grip, he just used his freedom to get a tight handful of Bucky's hair. 

It kept going, too, until Bucky's lips stung. 

Steve had broken it off after a few soft moments. The first moments of the kiss had been sweet, joy fizzing in Bucky's veins. And Steve had kissed back, let his lips move against Bucky's. But there had been a creeping familiarity to it. The kiss should have been entirely new, but Bucky started to taste determination on Steve's lips, a doggedness that kept him going past the point where other men would stop. 

It wasn't surprising when Steve pulled away, an apologetic look on his face. Bucky was glad for that, that he knew it was failed before Steve had started talking. 

"I love you, Buck," Steve had said, and it made Bucky's stomach churn. "I love you—but I don't. I mean. I don't think this is going to work." 

"No problem," Bucky said. He smiled and Steve smiled back. They kept walking. It was almost refreshing to know that Bucky could be humiliated like this, a thick choking feeling of shame. Most of the time since his recovery, he had been too aware of everything he'd been through to even fathom embarrassment. 

Ransom wasn't pulling back. He was still holding his lit cigarette, and Bucky could smell the smoke. It was acrid, and it stung his eyes; it was strangely familiar. There had been a lot more smoke in the world, once. 

Bucky kissed him until Ransom pulled his face away to gasp out a breath—Bucky followed him, refusing to allow him even that. He could feel the stuttering of Ransom's lungs in his own mouth, emerging from between Ransom's lips. He kissed him until Ransom yelped, cursing into Bucky's mouth. He shook his hand—the one that had held the cigarette, he must have burnt himself—but Bucky wrapped his metals fingers around his wrist and slammed it up against the wall, over both their heads. 

That got a different kind of sound out of Ransom—a needy little sound, something that immediately put a scowl on his face. 

"They not teach you manners in the forties, or did the Nazis take them?" Ransom said. 

"Here's the situation," Bucky said. "You're going to do what I tell you. You say no right now, and fine—I'll leave. But we do this, we do it my way." 

The sensors of the Wakandan arm were sensitive enough that he could feel the slip of Ransom's skin over the dense bone of his wrist even through the leather of his glove. He could feel the shift in his body. He was pinned by Bucky's hips, by Bucky's hand. If Bucky didn't want him to move, he wasn't going to be able to move even though Ransom was a big man, broad and handsome. Even if he regularly fucked other big men, he'd never been as helpless as he was now. Steve had never been this helpless, not when he looked like Ransom. When Bucky had Steve pinned against the floor of the helicarrier, it had been Steve who was making choices. 

"My safe word is Colonel Mustard," Ransom said. 

Bucky didn't move. He could wait him out. He'd dealt with more frustrating things than a rich asshole in his time. 

Ransom rolled his eyes. Bucky itched to squeeze down, feel his bones grind—but. He was waiting for an answer. 

"That's a yes, bucko," he said. "Have your way with me." 

There was still an archness to his tone, but Bucky could hear the strain in it. It was fascinating. Bucky liked to think that was the reason he wanted to rip Ransom apart—there was vulnerability there and even better, the struggle to hide it away. The line of his jaw was Steve's, but the way he held it was all his own. Steve's posture has always been "I'm going to do something about this," and Ransom was all "what are _you_ going to do about this?" They both were full of challenges, but Steve had an upright straightforwardness that made Bucky feel small and inadequate. 

Ransom Drysdale, whoever that was? Bucky was more than adequate to the task of taking him to his component parts. 

Bucky rubbed his dick against Ransom's hip, biting down that jawline. He tasted astringent and smelled bitter, almost nauseatingly strong. It was a chemical scent of leather and thyme. 

"You taste like shit," he said. He wanted to see if the bitten-off aspirated noises in the back of Ransom's throat meant he'd gone pliant. 

"I taste like money," he said. His voice was thick but he managed to get it out, snide tone mostly intact. "Tom Ford. Costs five bucks a spritz."

Bucky profoundly didn't care. He pulled away from Ransom and leaned back, holding Ransom in place effortlessly with his flesh hand flat on his chest. Ransom tried to move, and Bucky didn't even look at him, bending to pick up the whiskey. He took a swallow. He held it to Ransom's lips and watched his throat move. 

Without taking his eyes off Ransom's face, he twisted his hand in his shirt and yanked, hard enough to rip a big piece right off of him. Buttons flew, pinging against the concrete of the stairs. The sound that came out of Ransom was a close cousin to a moan. 

"What the fuck?" Ransom said, strangled. His voice was even deeper than it had been before, a heady mix of anger and desire. 

"Tastes bad," Bucky said. He gave Ransom his best shit-eating grin and dumped some of the whiskey on the white fabric, using the now-rag to scrub at Ransom's neck and chin. 

Ransom's face was almost impressed. He was struggling to maintain his above-it-all composure—there was color in his cheeks and his lips were plump, swollen with kisses. No one ever mentioned in the textbook that national war heroes spent more than their share of time being little shitheads—Bucky remembered that about himself, even if some other things were patchy. There was something profoundly endearing about the look on Ransom's face, the conflicting things that he felt as Bucky followed his rough scrub of Ransom's skin with his teeth and tongue. 

It made Bucky tender, a melting candy-bar kinda feeling in his chest. That just made him bite harder, wanting to chase it away. He didn't have any time in his life for tender feelings, especially not for assholes that looked like Steve. He imagined bringing Ransom around to Sam, introducing this guy as his boyfriend. He imagined the way that Sam's eyes would widen, and some helpless, hopeless part of himself imagined disappointment. 

He dug his teeth in and felt Ransom shudder. Bucky was hard in his pants—his dick was an insistent weight in his briefs. He wanted to do something about it, and for once in his life, he had means right in front of him, under his hands. 

Bucky kept Ransom boxed in against the wall. He used his flesh hand to support himself and his metal one to press down hard on Ransom's shoulder. Ransom slid down the wall and to his knees; Bucky imagined he didn't have any choice, not with that much weight making demands. 

When he was down there, Bucky kept crowding him. Ransom was trapped between Bucky's thighs and the cold concrete, but there wasn't any fear in his eyes. He was still challenging when he looked up. He was a stubborn guy, and that was good for Bucky, that was the type of look Bucky wanted in blue eyes like that. 

Bucky saw something coming a moment before it happened, fascinated by the minutia of Ransom's tells. 

"I guess I'm learning something about Captain America's taste in bed," Ransom said. "Hero in the streets, freak in the sheets, huh?" 

That hit like a bullet to Bucky's gut, a sharp shock that quickly grew infected, radiating heat from the wound. It settled in his skin and made his dick throb—he wanted to take Ransom apart, anger and desire mixed up so intimately that he couldn't tell the difference between the two. 

He grabbed a handful of Ransom's hair and pulled him up against his dick. Even through the fabric of his pants, the sharp plane of his cheekbone felt phenomenal. Bucky ground against him, and when he opened his mouth to spew more bullshit, he thrust hard enough to send the back of Ransom's head hard against the concrete wall. 

"Apparently, he didn't know how to suck cock," Ransom said, breathless. "Usually, you take the pants off first."

Bucky made a noise that was part frustration and part laugh that he couldn't quite contain. There was a world where Bucky could like this guy, he thought. He had a sense of humor and admirable composure. Whole lifetimes would have to be different—whatever set of factors turned Ransom's wit into a weapon shifted until he could be funny without looking for the soft underbelly of his target. And Bucky would maybe have to have never met Steve, never fallen in love with him. Perhaps he could then have looked at Ransom, and uncomplicatedly want to make him a whimpering mess, in a joyful way. Right now, he wanted Ransom to choke on his cock, and he hungered for those blue eyes to fill with tears, but the desire gave him both satisfaction and an unshakable nausea about what that anger meant about the type of person Bucky was.

"You've sucked cock before," Bucky said, his voice like gravel. "Take my dick out." 

Ransom smirked up at him as he did it. He had big hands, and they were unexpectedly gentle. Bucky hissed through his teeth at the soft touch on his heated flesh, and his own hand dug into Ransom's scalp at the way the pad of his finger pressed into Bucky's slit. He was still wearing gloves, and he decided to keep them on—the thin leather was an inadequate prophylactic, but maybe it would remind him to keep some amount of distance.

Bucky expected more commentary, but once Bucky's trousers and briefs were pushed down, out of the way, Ransom swallowed him down. He went for it, trying to take Bucky all the way, and Bucky felt the hard stop of his throat around the head of his dick. It was a clutching, sweltering feeling—and Bucky followed his instinct, let his hips force their way down deeper. Ransom gagged, and it felt amazing, sounded amazing—wet choking noises around his cock. 

He didn't expect an objection, and he didn't get one—he set a brutal pace, fucking into Ransom's throat. Ransom grabbed Bucky's hips—not to stop him, but holding on, bracing himself. 

The force of Bucky's movement pushed them both closer to the wall, Ransom pinned between Bucky's cock and cold concrete. His eyes closed, a stream of liquid leaking from them. 

Bucky didn't like that—he wanted to see that familiar blue. Ransom's hair was darker, and with the vicious intrusion of Bucky's dick, his face was less recognizable. He yanked Ransom's head in a sharp jerk. 

"Open your eyes," he said. "Keep looking at me." 

Ransom followed instructions, blinking up like he was looking into the sun. It was unusual, in a furtive hookup like this one, but Bucky locked his gaze on Ransom's eyes. Ransom was looking back, in a fashion, but before long his eyes were glazed and blank. He kept them open and Bucky found his imagination spiraling into them. He imagined Steve, age 20—small enough that Bucky could've picked him up and put him where he wanted him. He imagined Steve after his change, big and strong in a way that had always been hiding just underneath his skin. 

Steve, laughing and loving him. Steve, angry and defiant and taking his cock down his throat. Steve, Steve, Steve. He was sick to death of Steve.

His orgasm built in his stomach, an agitated mass that felt like it had a physical presence. A tumor, reaching out into each of his uncountable capillaries, spreading to all his limbs and making him quake with lust. He chased it with his hips, and he was furious, terrified. He hated that this was where he ended up tonight, that this is what his body wanted—he hated what it meant about the shape of his heart, that he went chasing after blue-eyed men, after a memory of a guy who didn't want him. 

Ransom was making wet guttural sounds around his dick, and Bucky watched one of his hands drop down, watched the movement of his shoulder as he rubbed himself. That scorched Bucky, the thought that Ransom wanted this enough he was getting off on it, that Bucky's cock was welcome in his body. His hips stuttered, a hunching ungrateful movement, and he shot down Ransom's throat. 

It was deep enough that he didn't even have the option of spitting it out, going right into his stomach. He choked again, more sweet wet sounds, and Bucky felt them skitter across his nerves. 

In the aftermath, Bucky felt numb. He'd lost something, and he didn't know if it was permanent—whether it was a caesura in the awful cancer of his want, or Ransom had excised it when he took him in. Ransom pulled off of him with a gasp, resting his forehead against Bucky's hip and jerking himself off with a rapidity that echoed Bucky's. 

When Steve had said goodbye, before leaving them all for a past which Bucky was pretty sure never existed, he'd smiled at Bucky and said that his biggest regret was that he'd never meet the man that was good enough for Bucky. Bucky wondered what Steve would have thought of this.

**Author's Note:**

> Ransom is full of shit about many, many things. One of them is how much his cologne costs.


End file.
